


the universal language

by allhalethekings



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, M/M, Miscommunication, Mistaken Identity, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 17:25:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5136296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allhalethekings/pseuds/allhalethekings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of the best things about the house he lived in was that it qualified as an optional-meal plan house, meaning that its residents had the option of cooking at home or buying a meal plan with the coop. While Stiles had opted to do all his own cooking, Sunday brunches were offered free of charge to everyone so he always took the opportunity to sleep in and then mingle with other co-op students at brunch. </p><p>Hey, why turn down free food, right?</p><p>The mind-numbingly Hot Grad Guy who could also be found at the cafeteria every Sunday had very little to do with why Stiles returned, okay? </p><p>…Fine, maybe he had everything to do with why Stiles came back every Sunday but if anyone asks, he will stress that it was for the waffles and tater tots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the universal language

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Farscapegeek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Farscapegeek/gifts).



> I owe so much to the wonderful [Kamilla](http://www.derekhalesmate.tumblr.com) for helping me out with all of Derek's translations! I will be eternally grateful to you for being my saviour <3
> 
> To Farscapegeek, I hope you liked my attempt at fulfilling your request. I tried my hardest to deliver what you wanted! <3
> 
> Unbeta'd - all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Title refers to love being the universal language (aka, the time I failed to think of a creative/witty title and used a cliche instead)
> 
> See end notes for translations.

In all honesty, Stiles will admit that perhaps living in co-op housing wasn’t the best idea. Thing is, it’s not like he knew how lonely it would be, especially since he’d opted to live in a house of ten people. Ten people.

But it was his third year and although he’d been hoping he and Scott would room together again, his asshole of a best friend had decided to spend his third year traipsing all over Europe as part of an exchange program. Sure, he says he’ll be studying in France for the year but Stiles just knows he’ll be wandering about Europe any chance he gets.

God, what a fucking asshole.

So naturally, Stiles had chosen the more economical route and decided to give co-operative housing a try. It wasn’t too bad, technically. The guy who he’d talked to sold it to him as a “Real World MTV meets college meets housing”. There was more stuff on economical and environmental caring in the community and also something about positive living space but honestly, by that point, Stiles was already sold on it.

The dude failed to mention how boring it would be or how much of a pain it’d be to get his fucking housemates to fork over the cash for the Internet bill.

He also failed to mention that a lot of the students who lived in co-op housing were also exchange students who barely spoke English.

“Hey, Stiles!” He hears as he pushes into the main office for co-op. The office actually ran out of one of the many houses the organization owned and the lower floor was split into the office on one side, a small cafeteria on the other side, and a few student rooms on the upper levels.

But there were some perks of living in co-op, one such perk making his way around the small make-shift cafeteria carrying a large plate of food to a near-full table at the back of the room.

“Hey, man,” Stiles greets back, relishing in the warmth that surrounds his body. It’s been a particularly chilly day outside. Stiles smiles at Heather, a sunny dirty-blonde who usually manned the sign-in sheet for mealtimes.

One of the best things about the house he lived in was that it qualified as an optional-meal plan house, meaning that its residents had the option of cooking at home or buying a meal plan with the coop. While Stiles had opted to do all his own cooking, Sunday brunches were offered free of charge to everyone so he always took the opportunity to sleep in and then mingle with other co-op students at brunch.

Hey, why turn down free food, right?

The mind-numbingly Hot Grad Guy who could also be found at the cafeteria every Sunday had very little to do with why Stiles returned, okay?

…Fine, maybe he had everything to do with why Stiles came back every Sunday but if anyone asks, he will stress that it was for the waffles and tater tots.

Stiles had seen him the first time he’d dragged himself to the Sunday brunch and he’d stood by the entrance for a solid two minutes, staring awkwardly (and somewhat creepily) at him, before Jackson had shoved him forward towards where the food was.

As embarrassing as that was, Stiles was glad Jackson had done it, if only so Hot Grad Guy wouldn’t see him and be creeped out.

But Stiles couldn’t help the staring; he’d never seen a guy more pretty in his life—

(“I’m pretty,” Jackson scowled.

“You’re not my type,” Stiles returned easily, peeking out at Hot Grad Guy out of the corner of his eye.

“I’m everybody’s type,” Jackson sniffed, taking a sip out of his orange juice.)

—and he was mesmerized. The guy was just a tad taller than Stiles, head held high with confidence. His build was much bigger than Stiles’s, the purple Henley broadcasting the well defined biceps and dark jeans that accentuated his ass like that’s what they were made for. But it was his eyes that melted Stiles into a pool of gooey puddle. Even after seeing him for the past eleven Sundays, Stiles can’t tell exactly what color his eyes were.

When it’s particularly sunny and the rays from the window hit his face just right, they glow an iridescent green and on particularly gloomy days, his eyes are a beautiful kaleidoscope of green and brown with perfect flecks of red. Unicorn eyes, Stiles had decided on finally.

Annoyingly enough, even after almost three months of pathetic pining on his part, Stiles had absolutely no idea who he was. All Stiles knew was that he was quiet, kept to himself a lot (only came to meals with his housemates who he’d talk to), and carried a plain, black Moleskine around with him everywhere. Stiles suspected he was a grad student, seeing as how he looked at least 3-4 years older than Stiles and that Stiles had never seen him in any of the typical undergrad spots around campus.

Stiles sneaks a glance behind him at Hot Grad Guy’s table, where he was very obviously in the middle of a conversation with another dude, so he turns around again. He moves forward, grabbing a plate, and smiles appreciatively at the lady who gives him a very healthy serving of tots and waffles on his place.

One of the best things about coming a little later to Sunday brunch is that the serving ladies always give more towards the end of brunch since they hate wasting food.

Score for Stiles!

“Stilinski, how long are you going to stand there gaping like a fish?” Jackson hollers from the back and he rolls his eyes. A few laughs break out from the room but Stiles knows it’s well-meaning. As lonely as his own house can be, he had made a few friends from other houses and Jackson was one of them, having met him after Lydia introduced the two. No matter how irritating he got sometimes.

Nonetheless, the Hot Grad Guy looks up from his conversation, amusement clearly drawn over his face. It makes Stiles flush and he shoots a glare at Jackson.

“Just trying to figure out if there are any other worthwhile options out there,” he shoots back but Jackson ignores him. Stiles slides into the chair beside Jackson, trying not to look back to where Hot Grad Guy is.

“His name’s Derek,” Jackson says, nodding his head towards Hot Grad Guy. Stiles jerks his head towards the blond, narrowing his eyes with suspicion.

“How do you know that?”

“Lydia told me,” he shrugs, taking a bite of his bacon.

“Uh huh, and how did she find out?” Stiles asks, because Jackson isn’t above using Lydia as an excuse to lie if he can help it.

Jackson rolls his eyes. “Believe me or not, Stilinski, I don’t care. She told me to pass the information along so I am.”

“Out of the kindness of your heart, right?” Stiles mumbles but he can’t help the small surge of happiness that fuels him.

“She also said something about him not knowing any English though,” Jackson continues, rolling his eyes.

Stiles frowns, eyes cutting to Jackson. “Wait, what?”

Jackson shrugs again. “He’s in the Languages department or something but he’s from Norway. Only speaks Norwegian.”

Might explain why he lives in co-op, Stiles thinks, glancing at Hot Grad Guy—Derek. The guy he was talking to had long left and now, he was hunched over the table writing in his book, his plate empty and pushed to the side.

“That – um, okay,” Stiles mumbles, the happy feeling in his chest dulling. He looks at his plate dolefully. “Wait, so how did Lydia find out his name?”

Jackson gives him an exasperated look. “Looked at the grad student directory online, obviously. Do you have a brain, Stilinski? Or is it just wood in there?”

“Not the only place I have wood,” Stiles replies almost instantaneously, because he can’t miss that opening, but the point stands.

Maybe Stiles did have wood in his head instead of a brain because he has no idea why the thought of looking at the grad student directory online never occurred to him.

“Plus, she’s taking a Folklore class this semester and she saw him working in the same office as her TA and happened to see the nameplate on his desk.”

Stiles nods, soaking all the information in like a sponge.

For a quick second, he considers giving up for the sheer reason that there’s no possible way he can talk to him now. At first, it was the thought of him being way too out of his league to even muster up the courage to say a word to him but now, there’s a huge language barrier. And it’s not even like Spanish or French where Stiles can mumble out a few shoddily pronounced words in an attempt to communicate. How the hell was he going to learn enough Norwegian?

Stiles looks back at Derek, who’s beautiful even when his face was set in a frown, dark-set eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he scribbled who-knows-what in his notebook. That was yet another roadblock to Stiles talking to him; if he wasn’t already talking to someone, he was bent over the same Moleskine he always carried with him.

But then, Stiles remembers the one time a few weeks he had bumped into Derek while he was on his way into the house for brunch and Derek had been on his way out. Derek had mumbled out a word Stiles hadn’t understood but had given him an apologetic smile. Stiles had only nodded, dazed, because Derek had the cutest dimples that peeked out of the permanent scruff on his face, making him look younger by years.

As he thinks back on the memory, Stiles decides to fuck it all. He’s a Stilinski and Stilinskis never back down from a challenge. He takes a determined bite out of his waffles. He can do this.

 

“I can’t do this,” he whines pitifully, folding his arms over the table and resting his head on them. In front of him, Lydia rolls her eyes and flicks him on his forehead. “Hey!”

“He’s just a guy,” Lydia says, taking a delicate smile out of a strawberry. She tilts her head, pausing. “Albeit a very good-looking guy who’s probably miles out of your league.”

“Thanks,” Stiles mumbles, giving her a flat look.

“Look, just say hello to him. How hard can it be?” Lydia suggests. Stiles opens his mouth to ask her if her fluid dynamics problem set made her forget that Derek probably won’t even understand that but he sits up, an idea curling in his mind.

“Lydia, you’re a genius,” he breathes, jumping up. He shoves his books into his bag, leans over the table to kiss her on the forehead and runs for the library.

 

He goes with plan A first – Lydia’s plan. Just say hello.

The next Sunday at brunch, Stiles tries to get there extra early but ends up failing to do so. He tries not to be too dejected; he can already see the chances of him seeing Derek now for any significant time dwindling. But he gets a rare surprise when he walks in the cafeteria and sees Derek sitting by himself for once. Stiles grabs his food quickly and slowly walks towards the back of the room to Derek’s table, fingers gripping his plate tightly the whole time.

He stands awkwardly by the table but Derek’s bent over the table writing in his notebook again. His stomach churns with nervousness and a tightness forms in his chest; maybe this isn’t a good idea. Before he can walk away, Derek’s head shoots up and the movement jolts Stiles out of his thoughts. Pale green-blue eyes stare back at him but Derek doesn’t make a noise.

“Um, hi,” Stiles flushes. There’s an awkward silence that’s every bit as painful as Stiles had imagined. Before Derek can say anything though, Stiles turns around and walks pitifully to another table, head hanging low, the back of his neck tingling the whole time.

Needless to say, plan A was a failure.

 

Plan B required a bit more research. The little time he had left after working on his independent research paper for his Lit class, he spent crawling through the Internet for a good translator. He ends up just going with Google Translate.

Google knows all, right?

So he takes out a fresh notebook and writes down the translations to all the sentences he wants to say to Derek. He starts with the simple (“My name is Stiles”, which becomes “Mitt navn er Stiles”) and works on more complicated conversation topics (“How is your grad work going?”, which translates to “Hvordan er din grad arbeidet skjer?).

He’s embarrassed to say he’s even written down what he might say to Derek on their third or fourth date (let nobody ever say that Stiles isn’t an optimist, okay?).

Stiles practices his pronunciations diligently the entire week, leading up to the Sunday brunch. He’s jittering with nervousness yet again this time but steels himself nonetheless. It’ll be like ripping off a Band-Aid, he tells himself.

This time, he waits until he’s almost ready to leave when he walks up to Derek’s table once again, all the while clutching at the notebook he wrote the translations in close to his chest. Derek raises his head, smiling when he sees Stiles. He opens his mouth to say something but Stiles interrupts him.

“Um, hei mitt navn er Stiles,” he says slowly, awkwardly, briefly closing his eyes in mortification when he realizes he just butchered every work except for his name. When he peeks his eyes open though, he finds Derek looking at him with an obvious surprise on his face, mouth forming an ‘o’ shape.

“Jeg heter Derek, vil du sette deg ned?” Derek asks, head tilting to the side. He’s smiling widely at Stiles but Stiles gives him a nervous look. He has no idea what Derek just said so he shoves open his book, eyes flying over his notes in a desperate attempt to see if he’d written down any words similar to what Derek just spoke.

But there’s nothing he can recognize so he looks at Derek with wide eyes, alarmed. “Um.”

“Går det bra? Du er ikke helt frisk ut,” Derek says, concern written all over his face.

Tiny beads of sweat pool at Stiles’s temples and he gulps, feeling like he just wants to crawl into a hole and die.

“Mitt navn er Stiles,” Stiles repeats feebly, forgetting he has a whole slew of phrases he could read out.

Derek’s eyebrows scrunch up in confusion. “Hva?”

Stiles can’t help it; he flees.

 

Stiles practices even more that whole week. So he’s had a small setback – that’s okay! He can come back from this. He also gets the bright idea to record the conversation on his phone so he can play back what Derek says to him and translate it when he has the time.

The next Sunday, he walks up to Derek with determination. Again, Derek smiles when he sees him and motions to the chair beside him. Stiles sits down, tries (and fails) not to be too happy when he sees Derek close his book and turn to him fully.

“Stiles,” Derek greets, face dimpling at him. “Jeg heter Derek, hvordan går det?” He holds out a hand, presumably for Stiles to shake. He shakes Derek’s hand, reveling in how warm and soft it is, ignoring how cold and clammy his own is. Derek gives his hand a tight squeeze nonetheless, smiling wider.

“Hvordan har du det?” Stiles stammers out, sitting down this time.

“Jeg har det bra! Det er så godt å se en nordmann her!” Derek’s eyes light up. “Hvilken klasse går du i? Du er ikke en masterstudent, sant? Jeg kan ikke huske å ha sett deg under orienteringen!”

Stiles’s eyes widen in surprise at the speed Derek talks at. Fuck, he hadn’t prepared for this. His eyes flit around the room; it’s late enough that most of the people have long gone by now so at least he can say there won’t be many witnesses to this trainwreck of a conversation at least.

He’s managed to recognize a few words, understanding that Derek’s mentioned the words, ‘good’, ‘Norwegian’, ‘not’, and ‘grad student’. Derek’s still looking at him, expecting an answer though and it occurs to Stiles that it might be a yes or no question so he considers this. At least this will give him a 50% chance he’ll give the right answer so he goes for it.

“No,” Stiles tries, smiling in relief when Derek nods. “Hva er det du studerer?” His pronunciation has gotten much better thanks to the hours he’s spent talking back to Google and he’s glad for that at least.

“Ååh, Klassisk Mytologi og Folklore med en spesialisering i norsk folklore,” Derek answers easily. “Hva med deg?”

Stiles thinks he’s asking the same question back (after all, that’s how this conversation would go in English too, right?) so he answers, “Kriminologi og Engelsk Litteratur.”

He’d prepared for this question.

Derek leans forward with interest. “Søsteren min er i det Engelske Masterprogrammet! Jeg tror ikke du har møtt henne da, for hun har bare vært lærerassistent for førsteklassinger de siste årene.”

Houston, we have a problem, Stiles thinks desperately. The only words he recognizes are ‘sister’, ‘English’ and something about ‘first’. Needless to say, he’s at a loss this time so again, Stiles resorts to his fail-safe plan.

“Greit hade!,” he exclaims and shoots out of his chair, waving profusely at Derek as he stumbles out, ignoring Derek’s bemused look.

 

“Jeg har ikke møtt søsteren din ennå, hva heter hun? Stiles asks, dropping in the seat beside Derek. Like always, Derek closes his book, pushing it to the side and smiles at Stiles.

“Hei, Stiles,” he says instead, teasing smile on his face. Stiles rolls his eyes but indulges him regardless.

“Hallo, Derek, hva er din søsters navn?” Stiles snarks back, pleased that it makes Derek laugh.

“Laura,” Derek replies, leaning back in his chair, face soft and open. Stiles tries to think back to any Laura he knows in the English department but comes up empty. He shrugs, twisting his mouth in embarrassment at failing to know Laura but Derek simply waves it off.

“Hvor mye elder er hun? Eller yngre?” Stiles inquires, leaning back in his own chair.

“Eldre, ett år,” Derek answers, fond smile on his face. “Hun er et spetakkel, men det er enklere å kjenne noen som går på den samme skolen.”

Stiles nods, fiddling with his book, drawing Derek’s attention to it but he needs something to do with his hands. He’s slowly getting better at conversing in Norwegian; it’s still awkward for him to say the words without an accent but he’s getting much better at recognizing words when Derek says them.

They carry on a somewhat stilted conversation but Derek doesn’t mind it when Stiles stumbles a few times, only smiles at him every time he stutters. He even helps Stiles with the pronunciation when it’s obvious Stiles is failing to say the word and the thought makes Stiles ridiculously happy.

Unfortunately, Derek is the first to leave this time because of an exam the next day but for the rest of the day, Stiles can’t keep a huge grin off his face.

 

The next couple of Sundays go over in much the same way. During the week, Stiles diligently writes down what he wants to talk to Derek about and when they meet on Sunday, they usually converse for thirty, forty minutes before one of them inevitably has to leave. Much to Stiles’s happiness, they begin to eat together as well and on days Derek is busy talking to someone else, Stiles spends the time catching up with Jackson.

It’s a good system and every Sunday that Stiles spends in Derek’s company, he can feel himself falling a little deeper, a little harder. He likens his feelings to those he had for Lydia when they were back in high school but even so, he knows deep down that it’s different this time.

With Derek, everything is easier. Regardless of the language barrier, he’s never felt so comfortable talking to someone else before. What had started as a bunch of random, awkward conversations had slowly melted away into something more lasting. Although Stiles still wasn’t as comfortable as Derek was when he was talking, he understood much more with each passing week.

One such Sunday, Derek shared a picture of his family, softly pointing out everyone in his family to Stiles. Stiles had nodded in understanding even though he only really understoof half of what Derek was saying but the sentiment was there. Derek was sharing something personal about him so the next Sunday, Stiles shared a picture of his mom with Derek. He’d stumbled over that conversation, not because he didn't know what to say but because it’s hard enough for him to talk about his mom in plain old English. From the way Derek’s eyes had softened though, he understood exactly why Stiles had so much trouble.

When Stiles had looked down at his fidgeting hands in sadness, Derek reached over and placed one hand over his. The weight of his large, warm hand made every jittery nerve in Stiles’s body settle immediately and he exhaled in relief. Slowly, Stiles turned over one of his hands, catching Derek’s in a hold and for a second, he thought he’d overstepped but when Derek squeezed his hand with a firm reassurance, Stiles began to breathe a little easier.

 

“Stiles!” He hears from somewhere around him so he stumbles to a stop, barely able to keep himself from tripping on his face. Stiles whirls around, trying to see who called his name, but regrets the action immediately when he feels his head spin.

Fuck, maybe those last few shots were a mistake but he couldn’t let a guy like Jackson win, okay? Besides, this is one of the first Saturday nights he’s had

“Hm? Whozzat?” he slurs, blinking rapidly, rubbing his eyes. He feels himself lean forward but a large, warm hand quickly grabs at his waist, pulling him upright. “Hey!”

“Stiles!”

This time, the familiar voice is much closer to him – like right-next-to-his-face closer. Stiles turns his head just a fraction and comes face to face with a very unimpressed Derek – is that even Derek?

“Derek?” Stiles asks slowly, narrowing his eyes. Something must not be right because he didn’t think Derek had a twin but there are definitely two of him he was seeing right now. He opens his mouth to say as much but his body starts to lean forward again and the hand around his waist curls even tighter, holding him in place.

“Herregud, hvor full er du? Jeg kan ikke forstå hvordan du trodde det var en god idé å gå hjem, så full som du er,” Derek mutters but it’s not like Stiles understands what he’s saying so he just nods.

Stiles giggles. Derek winds Stiles’s arm around his shoulders and slowly they walk home. It’s a short walk to Stiles’s house so they walk together in silence. Well, Derek refuses to say anything, just mutters angrily under his breath. Stiles on the other hand, points to just about everything, a house, a rock, the park, the swings, and happily saying the words in Norwegian. He even points up at the sky, open and dark. “Himmel!”

“Ja, det er himmelen, Stiles,” Derek mutters in reply. “Gratulerer, du kan nå utnevne deg selv som, Captain Obvious.”

It takes only a couple of minutes but they finally stop in front of a house and Stiles has to stare at it for a solid minute to realize it’s his house. He claps his hand with delight, turning to Derek and points to it. “Hjem!”

Derek rolls his eyes but allows a smile on his face. “Hjem,” he confirms. He walks Stiles up the porch and right to the door, even waits while Stiles fumbles with his keys and struggles with opening the door. Finally when he gets the door open, Stiles stumbles inside, turning around to face Derek.

“God natt,” Derek murmurs softly. Stiles grins at him and repeats the words back, relishing the smile that he gets from Derek. Even in his drunken state, it doesn’t fail to make Stiles blissful.

That’s the thing, he realizes drunkenly. Derek is one of the few people in the world who reminds Stiles of Scott sometimes; he’s smart, just the right amount of snarky, but more importantly, he’s always happy if somewhat shy. And Stiles will lie up and down to Jackson but truth is, seeing Derek smile makes his toes curl. It’s like something in Stiles settles almost immediately when Derek smiles at him, his chest loosens in contentment and he’s able to breathe a little easier. It’s not like he’s normally wound up or anything but seeing Derek happy just adds that extra bit of happiness in Stiles too.

“You’re one of the best guys I’ve met and you make me really happy, man,” Stiles starts. “Like when I first saw you, I thought you were so mind-numbingly hot but the more we talked, the more I realized how beautiful you are, y’know? I mean, you’re still hot but you’re actually beautiful, like mind, heart, soul, and that whole jazz.”

Derek’s face transforms into one full of shock but Stiles keeps talking because by now it’s word vomit and he never would have said any of this out loud to Derek. But hey, it’s not like Derek can understand him anyways, right? Stiles waves a hand towards Derek, blissed out smile on his face. He pokes Derek in the chest, making him stumble back.

“You make me happy, dude.” A small bout of silence falls between them, breaking only when Stiles breaks out in laughter. “Fuck, I’m so glad you didn’t understand any of that.”

Stiles gives Derek a bright smile. “God natt!” he exclaims cheerfully, shutting the door in Derek’s face.

 

The next morning, Stiles is definitely less cheery. Although he doesn’t have a hangover save for a very dry throat, the events of the night before some back to him in short glimpses. Thanks to Scott, he’s well aware of how weird Stiles can be under the influence and well, it’s not like Derek was accustomed to drunk Stiles. He groans in embarrassment, already debating whether he should skip brunch to avoid Derek for the day but his stomach grumbles painfully so that’s clearly out of question.

Stiles gulps down two whole glasses of cold water on his way out and the liquid immediately soothes his parched throat. He’s always been pretty good with alcohol and last night, he’d drank just enough to get him to his tipsy, heavily buzzed state; it was nowhere near to what he’d need to drink to get blackout wasted.

He pulls on a lightweight jacket because it’s going to be a particularly chilly weekend and is just about to open the front door when there are a few short raps against it. Stiles opens it, eyes widening in surprise when he sees Derek in front of him. He’s dressed in his usual leather jacket atop a dark purple Henley, which works amazingly well against his skin tone and really makes his eyes pop with colour.

“Der—“ Stiles barely gets out before Derek surges forward, pulling Stiles head closer to him with both his hands and firmly kissing him on the mouth. It takes Stiles by surprise so it’s a full ten seconds before he finally gets with the program but once he does--

Once he does, it’s awesome. Stiles grabs Derek by the hips, pulling him even closer, and tilts his head just enough for them to deepen the kiss. Stiles would love to say it’s everything he’d imagined but he can’t. He never imagined their kiss going anything like this - their mouths fitting together so perfectly that he has to wonder why they hadn’t been doing this sooner.

The stubble on Derek’s face grazes at the side of his face, tickling him, but Stiles ignores it because, well, his face is doing something way more important for the time being. Stiles slides his hands up Derek’s arms and around his neck, playing with his hair. It feels soft, almost luxurious, between his fingers and Stiles sighs with contentment into Derek’s mouth.

They break apart after a few moments to take a breath and it’s the influx of air that drives Stiles’s brain into overdrive because--

“What the--”

“You can speak English!” Derek exclaims, looking at Stiles with big eyes. His face is flushed, lips almost swollen, and Stiles gives himself a mental self-five for being responsible at Derek looking so debauched. It’s then that his brain finally catches up to what Derek said and he flails back.

“You speak English?” Stiles all but screeches, horrified. “You’re Norwegian!”

Derek frowns, steps back himself. “I’m from California.”

“No, you’re not!”

“I think I’d know where I was born,” Derek replies dryly. “I did spend a couple of years in Norway researching at a school there before starting here though.”

“But--”

“Why would you think I was Norwegian?”

“Because every time I saw you here, you were talking to some guy in another language and then my friend said his girlfriend said you were from Norway!”

“Who?”

“Lydia Martin, and that strawberry-blonde genius is never wrong,” Stiles states matter-of-factly.

Derek furrows his brows. “Lydia? I think I’ve had her briefly for my Folklore tutorials when I was covering for her regular TA.”

Stiles pauses. Because wait, if Lydia knew Derek wasn’t Norwegian then--

“Jackson,” Stiles hisses, glaring at the floor.

“Who?” Derek asks, confused.

Stiles purses his lips, waving his hand dismissively. “Some asshole who’s not going to live to see tomorrow so don’t you worry your pretty little face.”

“Pretty little face?” Derek asks, teasing grin appearing on his face.

Stiles flushes, face going beet red. “Well, okay, um - oh, wait, hold on!” he gasps, eyes flying open. “Oh crap!”

“What?”

“Last night! You understood everything I said!” Stiles whispers, petrified. Derek looks confused for a second before he starts to laugh loudly, his entire body shaking. He tries to muffle his laughter when he notices Stiles glaring at him but instead, bursts into another peal of laughter. “Oh, shut up, it’s not that funny!”

“You said I was mind-numbingly hot,” Derek says, finally calming down. He grins widely, taking a small step towards Stiles. “You also said I was beautiful.” Another step forward. “Apparently, I have a beautiful soul too.” Another step.

“And heart,” Stiles murmurs because Derek is oh-so-close.

“Hold on, wait,” Stiles interrupts, pulling away, ignoring the exasperated sigh from Derek. “I was terrible at speaking Norwegian! How did you think I was from Norway? I literally used Google Translate for everything!”

Derek shrugs. “You always seemed super fidgety so I thought you just had social anxiety or something. Sometimes that can translate to not being able to speak very well so it made sense. Now, can we please get back to kissing?” At Stiles exaggerated eyeroll, Derek grins, pulling Stiles closer again.

He places his hands on Stiles’s hips, slipping his fingers under Stiles’s shirt, gently caressing his skin. Stiles stays rooted at the spot, even when Derek takes one last step, stopping only when their chests are practically touching. Derek leans down, fingers slowly moving in circles, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. Stiles tilts his head up, shivering when he feels the familiar tickle of Derek’s stubble just under his jaw and they tease each other for all of five seconds before Stiles takes charge and claims Derek’s lips for his own.

Much like when they kissed the first time, Stiles can’t marvel at how well he and Derek fit together. Derek practically envelopes his lean, lanky body with his larger frame, almost like he’s shielding Stiles from the chill outside. They pull apart, slowly, gently, because they both need air, but not before Stiles chases Derek’s mouth, not wanting to let go.

“You learnt Norwegian for me,” Derek says, his pale eyes darkening.

Stiles gives him an easy smile. “I’d have learnt archaic Latin for you if that’s what it took.”

At that, Derek leans in and gives him a slow, wonderful kiss.

The following Sunday, Stiles shows up for Sunday brunch hand-in-hand with Derek.

Jackson, on the other hand, shows up with bright pink hair.

**Author's Note:**

> **Derek's Tranlations**
> 
>  
> 
> \- Jeg heter Derek, vil du sette deg ned? (I’m Derek, would you like to sit down?)
> 
> \- Går det bra? Du er ikke helt frisk ut. (Are you okay? You don’t look well.)
> 
> \- Hva? (What?)
> 
> \- Jeg heter Derek, hvordan går det? (I’m Derek, how are you?)
> 
> \- Jeg har det bra! Det er så godt å se en nordmann her! Hvilken klasse går du i? Du er ikke en masterstudent, sant? Jeg kan ikke huske å ha sett deg under orienteringen! (I’m great! It’s so good to see a fellow Norwegian here! What year are you in? You’re not a grad student right? I don't remember seeing you at the orientation!)
> 
> \- Ååh, Klassisk Mytologi og Folklore med en spesialisering i norsk folklore. (Ah, Classical Mythology and Folklore with a specialization in Norwegian Folklore)
> 
> \- Hva med deg? (How about you?)
> 
> \- Søsteren min er i det Engelske Masterprogrammet! Jeg tror ikke du har møtt henne da, for hun har bare vært lærerassistent for førsteklassinger de siste årene. (My sister’s in the English grad program! I don’t think you would have met her though because she's only been a TA for first-year classes for the past couple of years.)
> 
> \- Hei, Stiles (Hey, Stiles)
> 
> \- Eldre, ett år. Hun er et spetakkel, men det er enklere å kjenne noen som går på den samme skolen. (Older, one year. She’s a riot but it’s easier to know someone at the same school.)
> 
> Herregud, hvor full er du? Jeg kan ikke forstå hvordan du trodde det var en god idé å gå hjem, så full som du er. (God, how drunk are you? I can’t believe you thought it was a good idea to walk home this drunk)
> 
> \- Ja, det er himmelen, Stiles. Gratulerer, du kan nå utnevne deg selv som, Captain Obvious. (Yes, that’s the sky, Stiles. Congratulations, you can now appoint yourself Captain Obvious.)
> 
> \- God natt (Good night)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Stiles's Translations**
> 
>  
> 
> \- Hei mitt navn er Stiles (Hi, my name is Stiles.)
> 
> \- Mitt navn er Stiles (My name is Stiles.)
> 
> \- Hvordan har du det? (How are you?)
> 
> \- Hva er det du studerer? (What are you studying?)
> 
> \- Kriminologi og Engelsk Litteratur (Criminology and English Literature)
> 
> \- Greit hade! (Okay, bye!)
> 
> \- Jeg har ikke møtt søsteren din ennå, hva heter hun (I haven’t met your sister yet, what’s her name?)
> 
> \- Himmel (Sky)
> 
> \- Hjem (House)
> 
>  
> 
> P.S. No, Lydia had no idea Stiles thought Derek was Norwegian and didn't speak English. 
> 
>  
> 
> //
> 
>  
> 
> Hit me up at: [tumblr](http://hales-republic.tumblr.com) // [twitter](http://twitter.com/halesrepublic). 
> 
> Send me prompts, flail with me over Hoechlin's eyes, let's be friends - the whole shebang.


End file.
